


Shinfel Blightsworn - A Curse Unraveled

by AQLM



Series: Elf Fetish [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Consent is Hard with Warlocks, Demons, F/F, Falling In Love, Heavy BDSM, Love/Hate, Masochism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Warlocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 21:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20842355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQLM/pseuds/AQLM
Summary: Shinfel Blightsworn, the brilliant and sadistic blood elf warlock, has been rescued by the Netherlord from the clutches of the Eredar twins. What returned to Dreadscar Rift, however, was a shattered remnant of the masochistic hedonist that terrorized demon and mortal alike. What will it take to return her to her normal state? And what will it cost the Netherlord to bring her there?





	1. The Curse of Doom

Shinfel sat upon her throne within Dreadscar Rift. Since her long-awaited return, the demons had helpfully hewn out a set of private quarters within the molten rock. Warded with her personal runes, decorated with items of power salvaged from her former domain, it was as close to as home as she had in decades. If felt familiar and safe. It did nothing to quiet her unease.

She toyed with the demon she had summoned. It was a piteous, mewling thing, one of the lesser goblinoids who infested the broken shore. Cowering, it screamed for mercy, and she responded with another crackle of fel energy. It stumbled and writhed on the ground in a pool of its own blood, screaming unsatisfyingly. Frustrated, she dispelled him into the twisting nether. 

Shinfel resisted the urge to flip the silver tray off her end table. They had brought her food, blood wine, seared demon flesh, and a few grapes from Aszuna, possibly as a joke, possibly in consolation. They took on the taste of sulfur, but she found she ate them anyway. 

Through the fire swirled portal that served as her door, she saw refracted demons marching past, ignoring her. They were sent on their missions by their Netherlord, as were her fellow warlocks of the Black Harvest. She alone was forced to remain at home. She needed to work. She wanted to work. Their new leader, however, had bid her remain. 

Shinfel had long been separated from her body, her soul trapped in a demonic realm, and her power was not yet reestablished. The council nodded in agreement, led her to her home/prison, and went about their duties. She closed her eyes and sighed. Patience was not something she specialized in, not when it came to herself. She summoned another demon, picked up her dagger, and began to distract herself again.

\--

One does not become a warlock without a certain understanding of pain. So many rituals require blood and long before they were skilled enough to take from their enemies, the readiest source was their own. Those able to dig the knives deeper into their veins and to withstand the punishments of their own fel fire were those who quickly rose to power. The squeamish and cautious were left behind.

Shinfel, then Shalissa, was an oddity among the arcane-blessed elves. Long before Kael’thas whispered his lies into the ears of his broken people, Shinfel knew the power of demons. She had spent time among the humans traveling with her father, a merchant who dealt in jewel, blade, and magic. Wandering through Stormwind, she was drawn to the rites within the Slaughtered Lamb. The masters there saw her lust for power, saw her disdain for simple magics, and inculcated her to their calling. She stayed among the humans and forsook her people for her own drives.

Shinfel discovered early the power pain could bring. Where most warlocks tolerated their self-inflicted tortures, Shinfel reveled in it. If she could inflict it, if she could suffer it, she did not care. Pleasure, power, pain, magic, twisted together into an orgy of endless delight. As long as the pain flowed between her and her subject, she could work indefinitely. 

She rose quickly among the ranks. It was only the steering hand of her teachers that prevented her from the furthest depths of self-destruction. She would not be welcome among their halls if she could not control her desires. They gave her tools to summon demons far beyond her talent in order to slake her thirst for pain. That did nothing to lessen her sadism, but it tempered her masochism to acceptable levels. 

Her first minion was an imp, with intelligence and violence outsized for his diminutive form. He was her willing partner and she preferred him over most even to her eldest days. The void walker and fel guard who grumbled their discontent she pressed into begrudging service. But the first day she summoned the succubus, she knew she had found a home. She delighted herself with the succubus, allowing the demon to lash her until her flesh bled and pleasure her until her mind was seared. The demoness took equal delight in such a willing partner, to the point where the headmaster stepped in to keep the two of them from self -immolating. Abashed, Shinfel restrained her impulses with agonized reluctance until she was free from his gaze.

When Kael’thas brought their people to mindless ruin, she did not follow him. She desired to subjugate demons – following one to the ends of creation had no point. She went to Outland to consume its power, not to restore a broken prince who lost control of his demonic gifts. When the Lich King made his stand upon Icecrown, she was among those who raged against his door so she could steal the secrets he hid within. And when the Cataclysm came, she fell to ruin. 

Her immense skill attracted the eye of her superiors in the demon hierarchy. It was a rite of passage for every warlock to be tempted by the Burning Legion. She received an emissary of the deceiver himself, Kil’jaeden, during her private mediation in the Blasted Lands. With polite inquiry, the demon offered her a chosen rank among the generals of the Burning Legion. For many years, she had considered what her answer would be and even at the moment of the asking, she hesitated.

They could give her what she wanted. Loyalty to kin, love of country, or hunger for material wealth were embers in the flame of her desire for power. From what she’d seen in Outland, the Burning Legion could take her across the galaxy, crumpling races in her wake. She had also seen what the Burning Legion could do to the unwitting or the unwary. Before long, all those who believe they served alongside demon lords came to serve under. She was too enamored of her own destiny to chance such a thing and politely declined for the moment. Her demon visitor did not threaten. It merely branded a piece of flesh and handed it to her. Perhaps it knew where her destiny would lie. She kept the tattered mark within her spell book, ready to embrace Kil’jaeden when the moment arose.

The Twilight’s Hammer was another matter altogether. Some thought the insane followers of the Destroyer were demons. They were fools. Demons are of the nether, creatures of fire and rage. Even her void walker was misnamed – his home was in the rifts between worlds, where splintering energy coalesced and was given consciousness in its whirl. 

She had seen the madness touched members of the Twilight’s Hammer and felt the energy from them. It was darker than shadow, more insidious, more grasping. She underestimated them, believing them mere mortals squabbling over scraps. She had not appreciated the nature of their Master’s awesomeness. 

When the time came to cripple Deathwings’ lieutenants, she climbed the Bastion of Twilight and stood among the champions. Their preparation was incomplete. The ogre magus Cho’gall slew her companions, tempted her with the same bargain as Kil’jaeden did. Her refusal was far more vigorous and profane. He laughed, wound his magic around her mind, and imprisoned her deep within her body. Then he made her a puppet.

She committed atrocities in his control. Some were no worse than what she enacted through her vocation or her personal debauchery. Some were more vile than she could have imagined herself - and her imagination was vivid. Her hands engaged in acts of degradation and defilement against her allies as her mind smashed against the walls of its prison, powerless to prevent it.

Then Cho’gall in his infinite depravity defiled her. He opened the stronghold of her memories, her secret desires, her shames and failures. He displayed them for all to see, forced her to sustain their mockery, and violated her as completely as he could without killing her outright. She could neither fight nor scream, curse nor mock. Every sensation she felt but could not respond. This impotence was the greatest horror of her centuries-long lifespan.

She had never been quite stable before that, but now she teetered on the brink of insanity. Only decades of training kept her from blessedly falling over the brink, no matter how hard she tried. To embrace insanity was to embrace the void. Even as she suffered, she could not give them that victory.

When at last the heroes came to her, Shinfel’s body was irrevocably changed. The druid who broke the curse thought her restoration failed. Even after she cast her prayers to the earth, Shinfel was marked with ribbons of void energy, as if a flaming vine had encircled her and charred her skin as it constricted. When the elf’s eyes opened and were demon red, not eternally black, the tauren knew she had succeeded. The chestnut-furred woman reverently escorted Shinfel from the Bastion of Twilight back to Silvermoon. In transit, the druid worked her knowledge of the earth to purge the awfulness of Cho’gall’s work. The healer spoke little, sang some, and ran thick, coarse hands over Shinfel’s ruined body as much as the warlock would allow her. Shinfel, for the first time in many years, had the adoration and tenderness of a mortal at her disposal. Training kept Shinfel from recoiling, reviling, or freely accepting what was given. 

She lasted about a day within the restored city. She fled and secured herself within a ruined mage’s sanctum on the edges of their broken land. She adorned the walls with ancient ruins and carved in words with her own blood. Then she locked herself within, summoned her succubus, and allowed the demon to destroy her body. For the demon’s touch brought her security and washed away the agony and humiliation of her capture. 

The Council of the Six inducted her sadism into their mission. Paired with Zelifrax Wobblepox, she made artful revenge upon the Twilight’s Hammer. Demons she bound, forced to serve, and then discarded. Mere enemies were incinerated unless she thought they would provide a challenge. Then she would play with them, curse upon curse, fire upon shadow, until their flesh melted away. 

Members of the Twilight’s Hammer, however, rued the day they had listened to the incessant whispering of the void. Her gnomish companion made himself scarce whenever they happened upon an encampment, but always gave a time of his return. Left to her own whims, she would prevent the two from finishing their mission with her adoration of leisurely torture. 

She would select one from the group and force the others to torment him, lest they become the next target. She lacked the time Cho’gall had spent destroying her but made up for it in sheer brutality. Long after the secrets had been withdrawn from their unwilling lips, she found new ways to cut them down. The mess of screaming meat she brought back from the dead for hours on end was entertainment. When that one had died, she forced the others to bury him, then buried them alive. It was the closest she could come to replicating the horror of her capture. Her demons praised her depravity and served her ever more vigilantly.

At the end of her long journey, she saw the Destroyer unbound. She saw his twisted form sink into the Maelstrom and the depth of his insanity strip immortality from his brothers and sisters. She watched her fellow warlock lose his voice in the scream of terror, reducing himself to a mute beast who forsook his human form. She felt the awful energies of the day and the moment of their success left her vacant.

Deathwing’s defeat did not signal the end of Shinfel’s journeys, but she severed her connection to the Six and to the Horde. When they struck out to the ancient Pandarian lands and fled through the portal to a pristine Draenor, she remained home. There existed enough blood of demons and endless battles on Azeroth that leaving was, in a word, unnecessary. When Garrosh’s insanity rippled beneath Orgrimmar, she nonetheless aided. Not for love of people, but for self-preservation. As the Old God tortured its new thrall, she felt the corruption lingering in her blood roar to life. It sickened her with its reminder of her torments and she was glad when the Old God fell once more.

When the Legion began its final incursion into Azeroth, Shinfel summoned the Council. Within the fortress of Dalaran, they resolved to harness a demon of unspeakable power to turn against the Legion. An elf-girl from the forbidden city of Suramar joined them. Tall, with sloping ears and night-blue skin, she was an unusual addition to the conclave. Nevertheless, the breathless courier vouched for her with a script of blood and she was admitted to their group, becoming the sixth. So it came to pass that the elf-child participated in their failure and was flung into a demonscape.

The brutish things on Dreadscar Rift imprisoned the warlocks and engaged in their personal indulgences with their captives. Jubeka’s screams grated on Shinfel, detracting from her covert enjoyment and outright mockery of her torment. Mephistroth had plans for her, the brute informed her as he flayed her with amateurish precision. The invectives she lobbed at him earned her a sterner, no less inspired beating. The flight of her companions and their establishment of a base on Dreadscar Rift she perceived with satisfaction. It was only a matter of time before her rescue was also obtained.

Mephisthroth tired of the usual methods and a threw her to Niskara where she was again passed from uninspired brute to brute. She then found herself in the clutches of the beguiling Eredar Twins, Lady Sacrolash and the Grand Warlock Alythess. Accustomed to demonic torments, Shinfel looked with wicked anticipation at those who would perform her newest experiences.

Oh, but the twins. They were ancient Eredar, more powerful than she had ever faced. Their shared blood and complementary powers made them nigh-unstoppable. Their banishment from the Sunwell had only heightened their hatred. Within the nether they had brooded and trained. Shinfel provided the first new toy they had in years and they exercised their frustrations and desires upon her.

Shinfel’s tortures were no different from those she had before. The flaying, the burning, the humiliation, the violation. Things she adored and reviled in equal measures. She let herself writhe and scream through them, the tension within her seeking release as the sensations snapped across her consciousness. 

The curse was another matter entirely. Bored with Shinfel’s failure to submit, Sacrolash had taken a single black talon and pressed it into Shinfel’s head. The lance of pain shot through her body and dropped her to her knees, her teeth chattering and her hands shaking. It was raw pain, all-encompassing and blinding, bringing neither pleasure nor centering. Her screams were desperate, she fought her bonds, and when they began to inflict familiar horrors on her body, she could no longer embrace them. 

Shinfel had no hope of rescue and no end in sight. For the first time in her long life, she began to despair. The horror of being imprisoned in her own mind was a whisper of the torture she now faced. There was no need for variegated desecration of her person. Not when the agony obscured every breath, obliterated every thought.

She gave into the fear that ran rampant through her veins, battling with the ancient corruption that stained her skin. Her screams turned to begging, provoking cruel laughter from her captors. 

“Oh, the precious one wishes us to stop? Where is your strength, pretty elf? Where is your pride?” Robbed of words by the curse, she had screamed her impotent rage when the lash was reapplied.

The day her body was pulled away was one of renewed agony as much as hope. The warlocks were trying to find her. They had failed. Now it was her ephemeral soul that was trapped by the twins’ skill. Without a body to diffuse the pain, the curse wrapped its tendrils into her mind and squeezed. Desperate, she prayed to the demon gods and the Light with every empty breath. Mocking and refusal resounded back. The glorious Shinfel who had raged and ruined both mortal and demon had finally been broken.

Light encompassed her. A blinding, fel-green light that seared her soul and her missing skin, ripping her from her agony into waiting arms. Finally within her body, she collapsed, shaking, a scream strangled by a mouth unused to talking. From that position, only the elf child could hear her whispering. “No more. Please, no more.” 

Decorum gave Shinfel no audible reply, but she could feel the nod of a head against hers. The hands around her gripped more tightly, with intimate compassion, then helped her to her feet. Shinfel dug out a flash of bravado, identifying her captors, then pledging herself to the service of her new commander – the elf child, the one they called Netherlord. She was dutifully led to her new quarters, a stolen healer in glowing iron manacles appearing soon after. 

A grey-haired woman with a bent spine, the human seemed unbothered by her sudden abduction and imprisonment on a hostile demon planet. “How do you expect me to do my job with these damned things on me,” she chided. The brute demons that accompanied her looked to Shinfel, who nodded. They broke the chains and the healer walked forward. “Now turn around. Give your mistress her privacy.” They complied.

“Come here, child.” A milky blue eye appraised her, the other socket covered with a ragged bandage. The healer’s treatment of her was rough but thorough. When Shinfel squirmed, she slapped the warlock’s hand away. “Be still.” Shinfel agreed, not through fear but through motor memory. Enough elven grandparents behaved the same that even the mightiest ruler would cow at their request. 

After several minutes of prodding and poking, the woman stepped back. She grasped gnarled hands in front of her and murmured words of power, then flung them open again. A shaft of brilliant white enveloped Shinfel, burning her anew in the healing vengeance of the Light. The warlock restrained her scream and the light vanished. She looked across her arms, which still bore their blackened corruption. The wounds inflicted by her captors, however, were gone.

“The best that can be done for one of your affliction,” she croaked. “Now, send me back. The Mistress of the Void will soon perceive my absence. Her tendrils may reach even here...and none of us want that.” She reached up to the patch around her eye and unfurled it. An empty socket, save a curling tendril of shadow magic, looked back at Shinfel expectantly. 

“Hrmph. Your kind have no power here. I have slain enough of your Twilight Brothers that one old woman would be trivial. And certainly your Mistress,” she hissed the word, “Would be displeased to learn one of her followers calling on the Light’s power.”

The old woman cackled and rubbed her hands, unperturbed. “The light is a lost child of the Void. Soon enough, all who serve the Light will return to the fold and we shall welcome them. As for the demons, they are ill-begotten spawn of a confused follower, but no matter. You shall serve as well.” She shrieked once more. “But not today. Granddaughter,” she shouted.

Kira Ironsoul peeked into the room. “Are you ready, Grandma?”

“Yes, my pretty love, my burning pet.” She shuffled over and ruffled the human’s hair affectionate. “Oh, how we miss you in Darkshire. Still, your mother and I are so proud of you!” 

The human blushed and hugged her grandmother while Shinfel watched with annoyed confusion. 

“The irons, my dear. We must make a show of it.” Kira snapped her fingers and the manacles reappeared. Another whirl of flame and the elderly woman vanished with her two felguards.”

Shinfel and Kira eyed each other warily. “You sent for your grandmother,” said Shinfel, “to heal me?”

“I could give you a demon to drain,” she replied with a wave of a flaming hand. “This is faster and I figured you would want your privacy.” She tilted her head down to meet Shinfel’s eyes. “Your body returned in terrible shape. None but the three of us knew the extent. The Netherlord would prefer to keep it this way.”

“She is foolish, then. Among warlocks, there is no honor, no bond of fealty. My weakness should be used to further her goals.” Shinfel sat back on her throne and stirred the food with her fork. 

“She’s not a typical warlock. Not a typical leader. I shall convey your displeasure to her.” A twist of a smirk appeared at Kira’s mouth. “Unless you would prefer to do it yourself and show her how little you approve of her leadership.”

Shinfel kept the fireball from launching from her fingertips. “That will not be necessary. Now go.” Kira made a mock bow and left Shinfel alone. She tried to summon her imp, but his spirit was still lost. He had given himself for her and his punishment by his former masters was to be left adrift. She would continue to search. He was a faithful servant and his sacrifice did not go unappreciated.

There she sat. Deference to her injuries and her station left her impotent within Dreadscar Rift for three days. The curse, muted by the potion, left her shivering in her bed each night; the only time the pain lessened was when she twisted her body against the rebellious demons and worked her magic into their flesh. She had thought to summon her succubus to obtain the succor she typically provided, but every sensation vanished in the pain’s shadow. No lash of pleasure would cut through its pervasiveness.

On the fourth day, a visitor arrived.

“My lady?” 

The curious voice of her Nightborne commander echoed in Shinfel’s domain. She stood at the doorway, not dispelling the ward or the crystal-veil, awaiting Shinfel’s mercurial reply.

“Enter, commander,” said Shinfel. The veil parted and the blue-skinned girl entered with a deferential bow, though she flicked her fingers behind her and brought the wall up twice as strong. A chattering red skull flitted around the elf-girl’s head, zooming forward to inspect Shinfel and skittering away when she warlock burst magic at him.

The elf-girl tilted a graceful eyebrow at the skull and it rested by her side.

“He states the curse is holding steady. The ritual to purge you is nearly complete. Soon, the Eredar twins will be bound to our will. I will demand their cure and turn them over to you for your enjoyment, if you so desire.” Her hands made an equivocal gesture. “With that in mind, they would serve better as subjugated instruments of power than as the target of your frustrations.”

“You offer nonetheless. I do not require your pity, Netherlord. You have given me purpose and power. I have pledged my eternal service to you willingly. That is all that is required. Deploy me that I may earn my place.”

The elf child tilted her head ever so slightly, the glint of the felfire catching one of her earrings and glinting the greenish light back at Shinfel, almost as a rebuke. 

“Of course. Please accompany me to the staging ground. As you have been away from our service for some time, I will refamiliarize yourself with the terrain.” A pause, as if she were to say something, then reconsidered. “This is not an insult, my lady. This is mere procedure.” She strode away without allowing a retort. 

She brought Shinfel to the brink of a lava pool. “We’re bringing in new imps but I’m not thrilled with the quality. Break them in, show them what you have. Perhaps their new affinity for you will help us retrieve your beloved imp.” Shinfel would have been insulted at the ease of the mission had the Netherlord allowed for such insolence. None was permitted.

With a wave of her hand, the Netherlord dismissed Shinfel. The chattering throng of lesser demons hopped back and forth anxiously beside their bloated mother. The obscenely obese she-demon bowed within her lava pool and gestured with a flick of fire towards the imps. “New children, as requested, Mistress. May they serve you well.”

Shinfel beckoned the imps after her and ushered them through a portal. There was a lesser demon to quash in Aszuna, causing too much trouble to ignore without being powerful enough to draw the Netherlord’s personal notice. A quest arguably beneath Shinfel’s rank. She complied, as was her requirement.

They searched among the ghost-ridden and green glades of the former elf lands. Beautiful, as Silvermoon once was, and doubly-cursed as was her homeland. There they found the demon, sated on the blood of animals and travelers who had stumbled into his grasp. He was perhaps planning a further invasion, but unlikely. His type were just as content to gorge themselves on easy flesh and relax away from the Legion’s eye.

They descended on the fel lord, fire and shadow erupting around him as he cleaved futilely at the tiny creatures. A few were caught on the edge of his blade and were flung lifeless to the sides of the cave before evaporating in a mist of blood and fel. Shinfel wielded her magic, draining his life and cursing his soul until he began to wither before her. There came a moment where she had exhausted her own energy. Her blood pounded within her veins – a cut, a rush, and she would be empowered again. Warlock’s blood, in great quantities, in great qualities.

She hesitated.

Her reluctance gave the demon an opening to bring his mace down on a few of the imps’ heads. The remaining creatures flung their fire with irrepressible glee as Shinfel recovered enough to finish the demon off. That she had stopped casting for several seconds did not register. The imps clamored for praise and admiration, she threw a flame that singed their collective skin off, and they chortled nonetheless. A few minutes later, she returned to the rift. 

The Netherlord was absent. The imps were too happy to skitter away from her and recount in their squawking language their glorious battle. In the beastly countenance of the imp mother, Shinfel saw something well akin to maternal glee. It was unsettling and she drifted back to her spellbook, feigning interest in the passages she long since memorized, discarded, and rewrote. The advantages of an elven long life included the opportunity for further self-corruption in the service of her art. No one would question her blank stare of doubt masquerading as intense study.

The others were long on their own journeys and she eventually drifted back to her quarters. Again, she sealed the hazy glass, sat down and began to brood. The curse shifted in her body, making its presence known in pain. The potion was doing its job, leaving her functional, yes, but…she was not as she was. The joy in her own blood, the longing for success at any cost, had been swept away. She was tired of being in pain, a mental admission as disquieting as the pain itself.

Food had not reappeared and hunger added to her mounting misery. A servant she summoned bowed and scrambled out of her domain in search of something to satiate his mistress. What he returned with stank and tasted like the placed from which he was summoned. Her displeasure was brutal and would have been more enduring if not for the appearance of her commander in a swirl of green and black. 

The elf-child watched the flaming demon scream and rend his own flesh. A flick of her fingers unsummoned him. Sky-blue eye appraised Shinfel from beneath a grey cowl. Her attire was different from when she had sent Shinfel away, changed from brilliant jewel tones to coarse, thickened wool. The shadows around the two women were sucked into the coarse fabric, dimming the unholy emerald radiance of their sky to a sickly pale green. Clashing and incessant demon chatter was similarly muted to a distant rush no more intrusive than a river’s speech.

She doffed the hood and inhaled slowly. 

“We should speak. Privately.”

Shinfel’s sardonic gesture accompanied her comment. “Is this not enough, Netherlord? These walls hold their silence, no scryer may encroach upon us.”

“The lifeblood of this planet is a million liquified souls who scream their secrets into the lava and the skies. The very roaches are demonspawn and may be manipulated. I have a place more conducive to such conversations as we must have.”

A regal hand capped with two rings was extended. “If you would, my lady?”

Shinfel slid off her throne and walked the four green-grey steps to her commander. The rough fire of her skin seared the commander and then they were gone.


	2. Dalliance in Pandaria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude in the fields to reference the flames.

The cold air that slapped Shinfel brought an exquisite, aching reminder of the days she had spent in Silvermoon. Before she had donned the mantle of warlock and forsaken her people, she had lived in a forest on the edges of the ocean. Fields of grain, touched by the arcane that seeped into the ground, would ripple around her as she laughed and ran after her brothers. 

She looked around the dwelling. Pillows, candles, all manner of carven furniture, were crowded into three small rooms scarcely the size of Shinfel’s quarters. Unfamiliar words decorated the walls in hand-painted scrolls, though she recognized the slips of demonic runes concealed behind the tapestries. 

A sudden shout rang out and her companion turned towards the door with a fleeting look of consternation.

“Wait here,” she murmured to Shinfel. Then she gathered her robes in her hands and fled out the door, down a thundering set of wooden steps, and into the field beyond. Shinfel, never exceptional at taking direction, followed her. A shock of warning magic danced across her skin and she stepped back, looking outside across a massive field of vegetables.

A rotund bear-man, pandaren as they were called, stood leaning on a hoe in the middle of the rows of pumpkins. He waved fondly and called another greeting to the elf-child, who replied in turn, their language a mixture of low common and whatever these bears spoke. Affectionate hugs, an expansive gesture on his part and a nod of approval from the Netherlord. He tilted his head towards the cabin and the elf child made some gestures. He nodded more vigorously and waved his hands frantically at her.

“Hellouu. Wilcom to farm. Fill betar,” he yelled, a thick tongue tripping on high common syllables.

Shinfel grimaced without responding and the elf girl patted the bear man on the arm. He seemed unfazed and gave the elf a final massive hug, then wandered into the distance. He vanished into the horizon near a field of unusually large turnips.

The elf-girl walked back, weaving among the vegetables and making sure not a single light footfall disrupted the seedlings. At the base of the stairs, she kicked the dirt off her shoes and walked up a few more steps, then removed the shoes altogether. Then, she came inside.

“I informed him you were convalescing after a lengthy illness. He will respect that, though we should anticipate a large amount of healing food to rapidly appear. Fear not – I shall put up the appropriate wards so we are not disturbed.” She indicated one of the couches. “Sit.”

Shinfel inspected the Netherlord with shifting eyes, then did as she was told. She settled onto an emerald-toned cushion and cast her burning gaze upon her companion. The elf-child removed her cape and the room brightened, filled with the sound of trilling birds and the scent of an earth uncorrupted.

Tea was produced and poured into porcelain cups between the two, the kettle clinking against the china with a sharp sound. Another basket appeared and the Netherlord primly placed a handful of dumplings onto the plate.

“Eat. I tire of sulfur-infused delicacies. You do as well, I wager.” 

Before Shinfel could protest, the warlock whipped one into Shinfel’s mouth with a pair of sticks, then did the same on her own. She chewed carefully, trying not to choke on the oversized morsel, but found the taste and texture far preferable to anything she had eaten in weeks. She consumed her portion while the elf-child before her leaned back and sighed in contentment.

“It has been too long since I returned here. I should remember to increase Yoon’s pay.”

“An absent keeper makes for poor farmland,” noted Shinfel. “I am surprised anything is here at all.”

“My blood soaked this soil for them. I built this house with my own hands, constructed a larger one for him and his family. That I am far from it means only they have more freedom. They will not betray me.” A whipwind of flame engulfed the roof and vanished. “Out of love, but perhaps out of fear as well. They had never seen a warlock before.”

“Other than the food, why am I here,” said Shinfel, changing the subject. This form of game was one she had practiced with nefarious purpose in the past. There was no way a foreign journey and simple repast were anything but a manner of inducing confession.

“I heard what you said when we returned you to us.” Her voice was kind, as careful as her footsteps in the garden. “By reputation, I know your limits are vast and almost untouchable. You do not beg, Shinfel. To hear you do so, in that shattered whisper, is to know they broke you.”

“I am not broken,” she retorted. “If I were, Mephistroth would be scourging Dreadscar Rift in my name.”

“The Twins eagerly made you their plaything. They would not give you up for Mephistroth until they had their fill of your collapse,” the elf-child corrected. “That the planet is not scourged tells me your fall was recent. It happened nonetheless.”

“You do not know me,” said Shinfel, shifting in her chair. She felt the remains of the curse throbbing in her blood. The agony of its first casting had been diminished by the potion, but it was a constant reminder of her captivity. Had she been herself, she could have ignored it, relished it. 

“Shinfel Blightsworn. Mistress of Screams. Champion of the Succubi. Wielder of the Eternal Lash. Bearer of Corrupted Blood.” The Nightborne’s eyes pierced through Shinfel. “Your names I know, Shinfel. They are reviled in the Twisting Nether.”

“They are very old names,” replied Shinfel. She clenched her hand tighter. “Names not spoken. Names given in screaming silence. Those who knew them have died in shadow and fel.”

“Not all, my lady. Those who followed in your burning footsteps through Stormwind and the Blasted Lands drank in your power, sang your praises. Those who listened to the teachings and grasped the essence of demonic nature learned of you.” The elf child ran a finger over one of her rings. “I have been among the demons for many years. My power is not as ancient and accomplished as yours, my lady, but it has been long enough for me to revere and revile you from the moment I saw you.” 

Shinfel knew the truth of the telling, the cadence that suggested familiarity with magics far beyond that of such a child. But the voice, the body, would never have been allowed in her circles.

“No Nightborne has ventured beyond the shield for ten thousand years and not until your ridiculous queen made her bargain did you have access to fel magic.”

“I died in Suramar,” replied the Netherlord. She looked at her fingertips. “Overwhelmed by a swarm of demons and their crazed elven slaves. My body was ripped to pieces and my soul began to slip into their cursed grasp.” She indicated her form. “This one lingered nearby. Versed in the arcane and weakened by my brutal assault, she was an ideal vessel. I easily bested her soul and locked her away in the back of her mind. I have heard you know this fate.”

Shinfel shuddered at the recall and the Netherlord smiled. “I crushed her soon thereafter. She had the release of death that you might have preferred within hours of losing herself.”

“Who were you before?”

“A far shorter, far more cunning creature,” she chuckled. “It is quite unnerving to be this far from the ground and I wonder if I am less intelligent somehow. On the other hand, people step out of my way more readily and I find the shape comfortable. As needed, I may return to a similar body, but she will suffice for the time being.”

Her hand wave nearly knocked a lamp off a table, as if confirming the newness of this larger body. 

“Regardless, I am not here to talk history. I am here to talk strategy, or lack thereof. We are not the burning legion, Shinfel Blightsworn. We are powerful, but we have limits. We do not have unlimited imps. A warlock of your skill should have brought back a full complement, perhaps with a few turncoats. Instead, I see a crisped bunch of children best sent back to the void instead of healing.” Her austere, regal features went stern, disdainful. “I sent you out assuming you would not lie to me. I knew better. I allowed you to fail. Explain to me what happened.”

Shinfel did not reply. Few answers would satisfy someone who was correct from the outset. 

“Either you have experienced a decrement in skill associated with injuries you do not have or the curse has interfered with your basic function.” She snorted. “I don’t know why I’m bothering asking. I knew the answer the moment Mad Ernie explained the curse. Your affliction, Shinfel, has made you averse to the most basic of warlock skills.”

She produced the dagger that shared the cursed soul of the Man’ari and drew it in a thin, serpentine line down the turquoise vein under her skin. The dark blood within flushed ruby when it broke the surface. A puff of eldritch smoke emitted from the fingers of her right hand and the skull, formerly silent on the table, whirred in frantic excitement. With her intact hand, the elf-child waved it away as she would a circling insect. 

She indicated Shinfel with the clotting point of the dagger. “Shall I open a vein for you? Let you feel the rush? It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced and, your exceptional life notwithstanding, I doubt you’ve felt it.” 

Shinfel ran the pad of her finger along the flat of the blade. Even without feeding it her blood, she could feel the power radiating within. If she strained further, she could perceive the hidden whisper of the blade’s owner. When she reached the edge, her finger stopped. A moment of pressure would have parted her skin. She withdrew her hand.

The Netherlord’s consternation deepened and then dissipated as she hid the dagger and dismissed the demon’s head. “As I thought. You have learned to fear pain and in doing so, you have reduced your usefulness to me. For you to be your best, you must love the pain as you did before. If I throw you back at my foes, you will end up killing yourself or one of the other six. Neither is acceptable. Especially not you.” 

“What do you expect from me, Netherlord? The curse has taken its toll, yes. When it is lifted, I will regain my ability.”

“It will not be that simple. This kind of fear must be stanched and quickly. And there is my other purpose in bringing you here. I had hoped to avail myself of your talents but we did not have a chance before you were taken. That is the other things said of you, Shinfel Blightsworn. That what you have done with a mortal’s body only a succubus could enact.”

Shinfel went from embarrassment to confusion, then uncomfortable realization. “Are you saying you are going to have sex with me?”

The laugh was delicate. “Oh, so much more than that. I have a host of perversions. Indeed, my perversions have perversions. Pleasure, pain, humiliation, desire. It is veritable maelstrom. And there are so few who would slake my thirst as much as you, Shinfel. But that cannot be now.”

The Nightborne’s gaze appraised her once more and Shinfel felt the lick of desire accompany them. 

“You and I, we are warlocks. We are creatures of pleasure and pain. We relish the spilling of our own blood as much as that of our enemies. Your salvation, your healing will not be found on a mountaintop, pretty words of the healer bringing you peace and grace. It will be found in a claw, and a lash, and a streak of fire, in a world where you immerse yourself into blades and magic. Not tonight, though. Tonight I will give you a respite from the pain so that I may use you in the future.”

Now Nightborne rose and walked over, crouching in front of Shinfel and leveling grey eyes with Shinfel’s own. Within the pupils, Shinfel saw the ghost of the warlock’s self, the small soul that animated the vast body. It smiled as well.

“How long has it been since you have lain with someone other than your succubus? “

Shinfel’s embarrassment answer the question. 

“I see. I will reinitiate you. I lack a demon’s touch, but I have more than a demon’s power. You will lack for no sensation.”

The warlock drew a pale finger across Shinfel’s lips. “You would also have the advantage of a patient hand. I do not require your sadism quite yet. If you can stand the pleasure, the pain will follow soon after.” She crooked her finger so that it drew a line down Shinfel’s chin and lanced the underside, a rivulet of blood spiraling down her finger and splashing onto her grey garment. Shinfel’s wince made her flush with fury at her own weakness. A warmth of healing skin followed soon.

Then the elf-child sat down and placed Shinfel’s hands in her own.

“First, you will tell me what they did. The Twins, Cho’gall, and everyone in between. You will divulge every shame and every sorrow. You will not leave until I am satisfied with the telling. You will be satisfied with the telling.”

Shinfel sighed an invective that lit a spiral of runes across the patterned wallpaper. The Netherlord replied in kind and the walls were aflame with smokeless heat. 

“I can keep you here, but I will not do so unless you are so foolish. Speak, Shinfel. Give your confession to your leader.”

\--

Shinfel curled up on the cot and heaved a tired breath. She was drained. Physically. Spiritually. The act of laying down had taken the last of her strength and now she was nearly immobile, listening to the soft movements of the Netherlord in the next room. Food, perhaps. Tea. A poultice. Impossible to tell. Her eyes drifted shut.

The Netherlord had high boundaries for satisfaction. Shinfel had not walked the pathway of her time with Cho’gall this closely, not even with her succubus. In excruciating detail, Shinfel recounted the minutiae of her confinement and defilement. When she hesitated, the elf-child insisted. When she shied, the girl pursued. When she paused, the girl restarted, never letting Shinfel breathe from the recollection of those awful weeks. The lingering taint of the corruption burned more hotly than the curse the more she spoke. A few thrown wards tamped down the void curling around her skin. That did not make the speaking cease.

At the end of Shinfel’s suffering with Cho’gall, the girl brought Shinfel close. Her clothing was parted and Shinfel felt the back of a smooth, frigid hand running up the side of her thigh. Shinfel was not wet when the fingers curled into her, but the slow thrusting and massaging soon provided evidence of Shinfel’s arousal. After a few delightful minutes, the elf-child retrieved her hand. 

“A reward,” she had said. “As promised.” Shinfel had taken a few ragged breaths, composed herself, and returned to her chair, warm and confused. 

Her confinement with the Eredar twins was given in halting, choking breaths. They had done, in retrospect, so little. Their physical ministrations – cutting, burning, whipping, slicing – were not necessarily more skilled or more thorough than any other demon. The curse of doom, however, magnified them to unspeakable levels. Shinfel recalled Jubeka’s tormented scream when they were first captured by Mephistroth. Within the lair of the twins, Shinfel’s were twice as loud, twice as panicked, twice as broken. 

The Netherlord made her repeat the plea Shinfel had laid at her feet. “Please, no more,” she said, then again, with more conviction when prodded. Once more, then again, then another time. Eventually she was chanting the request, even though the only suffering she was forced to experience was the sound of her own voice and the admission of her own defeat. When her voice cracked, once, as it had when her mind was returned to her body, the elf-child silenced her. 

Again she was brought close, then disrobed. The green of the witchlight cast unnatural shadows on Shinfel’s unnatural body. The Netherlord appreciated her with fire in her eyes. “Now, I shall take that from you. You shall never break again.”

The elf-girl forced Shinfel to straddle her and wrapped Shinfel’s legs around her midsection. Once again, she slipped her hand inside and once again, she found the depths of pleasure Shinfel had forgotten existed. There was a slow shift in the sensations, forcing her arousal higher one delicate stroke at a time. Her body was disused to this attention, but every attempt to move was foiled by her partner’s positioning. Spread and vulnerable, the folds of her sex provided no barrier to a patient lover bent on wringing pleasure from a pain-struck body. There should have been decorum in her actions, but within a few minutes she found herself grinding against her lover’s hand as the girl urged her to give in to the sensations. 

“Take from me what you want. Show me you control your body.” 

The elf-girl pushed Shinfel onto her hand even deeper and manipulated her with demonic speed and mortal enjoyment. With a wrench of her body and a spasm of her legs, she felt for a moment the curse completely recede. She hovered over her body, over the pain, held in the taut string of arousal before orgasm. She wished she could linger here, the ache for release competing with the peak of pleasure. For a few moments, she did, writhing helplessly to achieve more sensation while pushing herself away to prevent the completion of the act. Her partner assented and for breathless moments, Shinfel quivered on the edge. She could endure this indefinitely…but the curse’s pain thundered back and she slid onto her partner’s hand, distracted and aflame. The orgasm overtook her with bittersweet release. 

Sagging forward, she wrapped her arms around the elf-girl’s neck, catching one hand on the silver that pierced the long grey ears. No wince from either as a drop of blood split from Shinfel’s skin. From between her breasts, Shinfel could feel a smile. Then she was lifted as easily as a bolt of cloth and placed upon the bed. Wordlessly, a blanket was brought over her and the Netherlord walked away, drawing the drape behind her.

Sleep had not come. She was overtired, overstimulated, puzzled but contented. There had been no intent at the outset for this to reach a sexual conclusion but she was long since questioning of her leaders’ orders. She had been commanded to do worse things before. At least this one had an element of volition. There had been no opportunity to protest but Shinfel suspected it would not have mattered. The effort made to contemplate and dissect the session was not worth the energy.

A second voice broke into the silence. That low common-pandaren mix, this time spoken by an older woman with a lilt and chuckle. The movements became more purposeful outside Shinfel’s room and within the patter, she swore she heard her name. Now the curtain was moved aside and a short, furred form stood in a silver of light, her face and body shadowed in the dim bedroom. The bear-woman placed a soft hand on Shinfel’s head, the warlock too drained to fight back allowed the intrusion. Her murmur was of displeasure regardless of language as she withdrew her hand. The Netherlord assented. Something cool and herbal was placed on her head once more, fragrant of mint and the outside. A few breaths and she was asleep.

\--

The portalstone on the chair glowed with an enticing green light as Shinfel pulled herself awake and removed the now soggy and fragrance-free poultice. The curse awakened with her and surged feebly through her veins. She mentally pushed it away. Beside her presumptive means of transport was more fruit and a newly-slaughtered bird of some sort, cooked but still bloody enough for Shinfel to relish. She downed it in a flurry of bites, composed herself, cracked the stone, and returned to the rift.

The heat and sulfur slammed into her face and took her breath away. She stood in their summoning circle, her reappearance acknowledged by Ritssyn, who growled in surprise and scowled when she failed to apologize. She strode towards the command center, finding the Netherlord dispersing their troops among the minor threats across the isles. The elf-child flicked grey eyes upwards and then down at the map again.

“Good. You’ve returned.” No mention of their previous affiliations. No mention of where Shinfel had been. “We have been waiting for you.”

A gnome pranced eagerly nearby and her commander indicated with a pale hand. “Lulubelle Fizzlebang. Shinfel Blightsworn.”

A squeal of delight from their new acquaintance. “Madame Blightsworn. Your legacy is well-solidified! And the twins! Formidable opponents for you to have withstood. I look forward to helping you subjugate them.” 

Shinfel snorted. The Netherlord promulgated the lie. It was easier as such. “Your presence is welcome.”

“As is yours, Madame. We were waiting on you for the ritual.” Shinfel appraised the Netherlord, who smiled. “Our new guest is here due to her unusual skill at summoning. We have created a locator spell for the twins. On your mark, we will bring them here and subjugate them to our will.”

Shinfel felt a tendril of fear wrap around her heart and squeeze. She did not want to see those women again. It did not matter that she was safe among the seat of power. She never wanted to feel the agony of their capture and the completeness of their subjugation of her as well. The Netherlord saw the shadow Shinfel’s eyes and pushed Lulubelle towards the portal. She beckoned Shinfel towards her and they walked behind the rest of the senior warlocks towards the portal.

“You are protected here, Shinfel. As much as last night meant, I know you are not yet whole. You will witness what I will do and then we will retire to that place again so I may continue what I started.”

The steeled command in the Netherlord’s voice and the half-breath of memory that carried their pleasure quieted Shinfel’s heart.

The fragmented bit of planet hung above the rest of their enclave and cast an eerie shadow over the wards that maintained their connection. Lulubelle drew her ritual, said the foul words, using the power of Netherlord’s weapon to help focus her. Shinfel was not asked to share in the energy. It was left to those more whole, the argument of course being that the curse and her blood would weaken the hold over the demons. The sisters appeared, beautiful. Awful. Their taut and gleaming skin, their dual and clashing colors. Their howls of rage and fear, the sound they made as they went through the air and attempted to crush their summoners. Shinfel kept from fleeing through force of will. She drained every ounce of it to stay up on that platform and not hide from those who had broken her. She watched the Netherlord bring them low with the help of the Six. She watched their will snap under Netherlord’s binding and their rage dissipate to bland, lascivious obedience.

The Netherlord demanded their healing of Shinfel. She beckoned the reluctant Shinfel forward and gripped her by both forearms as the massive demon approached. With an almost apologetic grin, Sacrolash pressed her thumb into the center of Shinfel’s head once again. The fire and her blood seized once and then she breathed a puff of black smoke as the curse receded. For the first time in weeks, Shinfel was free of pain. Had she been capable of such, she would have wept from relief.

They were all dismissed their tasks. There and are twins were briefed, turned over to Lulubelle for further instruction. The Netherlord then departed the rift to embark on her tasks and Shinfel returned to her studies.

That night within the hut, Netherlord disrobed Shinfel in the middle of the room and bade her summon her succubus. Shinfel repeated the incantation, one she had done so often for this purpose that she became wet the end of the sentence.

“My mistress,” purred the horned female. “It has been so long since you have brought me forth. I was beginning to believe you lost your taste for me. My lady, I would be very disappointed if that happened.”

“Then you will need to be so disappointed, demon.” The slender female demon flexed her wings against her body and twisted her perfect torso towards the voice. The Netherlord stood there, clad in a grey wool robe that went over her shoulders and left her front completely bare. “She has lost most of herself to a curse. You will assist me in returning it.”

“And who is this plaything you have for me, my mistress.” The succubus ignored the Netherlord. Her finger drew down Shinfel’s neck and left a trail of seared goosebumps. “Shall we be a trio tonight. It has been very long.”

“We will do as she says, Nimeth,” said Shinfel. “She will instruct us both.”

The succubus spread her wings until they hit both sides of the hut and fire spiraled down the whip at her side. Her voice shrieked and she threatened, “None but you command me, mistress. I do not serve this outsider.”

Netherlord flicked her fingers. Chains appeared around the succubus’s body and the fire dissipated. For a moment she bent, wavering and stunned, and then she righted herself again. “Of course, Netherlord. I shall follow.”

They pressed Shinfel between them. At her back, the succubus applied her lash and for every time the whip came down on her skin, Netherlord would give Shinfel pleasure at her front. She waxed and waned between the two of them, riding the Netherlord’s fingertips and then easing back into the sharp sting of the whip. The Netherlord pulled orgasms from her that felt like surrenders, the succubus opened wounds that felt like victories. But inevitably the pleasure was what she sought. She sagged against the tall body of the warlock in front of her, letting the skilled fingertips between her thighs bring her to another burst of rapturous pleasure. The succubus let out a hiss of disappointment.

“My lady, too long have you strayed from my lash. When will you play with me again as we did in days of old? Or have you become so mortal that you no longer take the pain like a true warlock?”

The rebuke came from the hand of the Netherlord. The demon screamed and sizzled, then was unsummoned a puff of green grey smoke. The stench of seared flesh and brimstone dangled in the air.

The nightborne warlock pulled her angular fingers through the smoldering strands of Shinfel’s hair. Then she let Shinfel down slowly to the floor, gathering blankets from around the room and wrapping them around her. Shinfel couldn’t bring her eyes to look at that of her partner. She couldn’t face her own frailty. When would she be reconstituted into the Shinefel who adored the lash and came just as hard from splitting her skin as stroking it? The Netherlord knew better than to say anything. Instead she bought soup and a spoon, put the candles to a pale blue, and left Shinfel to rest.

She had woken alone among the soft pillows and the misty farmland of Pandaria. The stout farmer who tended in the Netherlord’s absence nodded smartly at her as she took burning steps through the rows of vegetables. She could understand the appeal of such a placid place. None would consider the Netherlord weak. All outsiders forgot that before they were bound to the demons, warlocks lived among the people of the land. Some sought the path of demonic parlance for dark urges. Long before they summoned their first demon, they preferred the gloom of the cave and the somber candlelight on black velvet walls. But not all. 

Some came to the darkest reaches of magic through necessity, bondage, or misplaced curiosity. They never shed the remnants of their humanity. Those who tried to regain it found their torture doubled, for the stain of demonkind can never be scourged away. Not even by death.

Warlocks did not retire. Eventually they were consumed by the magics they pursued, falling into the clutches of the Legion at last either as unwilling slave or avid zealot. Some were killed in the field of battle or were assassinated by their eager and cunning apprentices. None would die in bed. Perhaps the Netherlord thought otherwise, which is why she maintained this little slice of heaven. 

This became their routine, the flesh, fire, lust, and pain in between missions. Shinfel did not known when the Netherlord would demand her appearance, only that when she did the ending was rapture and chaos in equal measures. The pain she began to accept, perhaps enjoy, but pleasure was what she ached for more often. The Netherlord seemed pleased but Shinfel bristled. It was still too slow.

Shinfel returned to Dreadscar Rift one morning and Ritssyn Flamescowl, her most avid competitor for the Netherlord’s attentions, approached her with a glowing crystal. He extended it to her with a green and flaming hand. 

“The Netherlord gave me this while you were on your mission.” The word mission passed through his gnarled teeth with a hint of sarcasm. Perhaps he had guessed that her absence had not been for their pursuits. But in this place, he dared not divulge his knowledge. “It is the key to the prison where your imp’s soul is trapped. I was told you would undertake his rescue. Netherlord said you would want to arrange it.”

Shinfel gripped the emerald stone in greedy hands. It seared her flesh and to her thankful surprise, she did not drop it. She did not clench it tighter as she would have in times past but she no longer reviled the pain. With a practiced eye she inspected the prism, seeing the facets where the runes had been etched. The wards and runes signaled a difficult untangling of magical threads. Once inside, she could imagine the fierce battle that she would need to undertake to seek out his soul. A trap. This was a trap. The Legion still hope to snare her for their own devices as either slave or destroyer. Given that she had successfully evaded the Eredar Twins she suspected they would prefer torture. And she had her fill.

“Thank you. I will begin the ritual at once.” He gripped her arm and she felt the bones in her wrist shift beneath it. With a flaming jump she flung herself away from him and readied a ball of shadow energy, which he deflected when she let it loose. 

“Do not fight me. You don’t have the heart. You no longer have the power.” The flame that engulfed his balding head flared and his eyes smoldered at her. “The Netherlord is not the only warlock with eyes. I have seen your power decline, Shinfel, and I wonder at its source. The curse drew forth much from you. That is why the Netherlord keeps you behind. You are liability, one that she is tolerating. If you throw our resources at your little project, you will waste them and yourself. In her absence, I carry out her will.”

“You do not have the power or standing to countermand me, old man,” sneered Shinfel. She hid how well his words had hit in a voice of derision and an expression of a sneer. “If I wish to undertake this, I will.”

“The Netherlord will not allow it. She will not allow you to become a stain on a rock on some forsaken planet. She will not let you go until you are a whole.” He peered at her, flame in his eyes barely visible through the wreath of fire that constantly adorned his neck. “I do not know what rituals you two undertake but I know it has been slow. Perhaps she could rush it, but I do not think she will.”

He walked away, not allowing her to respond. And Shinfel felt…humiliated. She felt exposed. She felt her weakest self and she cursed that. She gripped the imp’s prison in her hand and let the thin edges pierce her skin. She feared the demons as she never had before. She had been their commander all her life; tasting the other side scarred her. She could not go into that prism. She would not be allowed to go. In frustration she threw the gem. It bounced and settled by a bookcase, attracting the eye of one or two imps who knew better than to do anything but skitter out of her way.

She scrolled a note for the Netherlord and retreated, not to her throne room, but to the Broken Isles themselves. The Legion’s invasion was in full and florid force. She could not imagine the firepower they had presented but she knew it was time to wield it. One of the foolish warlocks she rarely saw, Marius, beckoned her over. “My lady, an unexpected surprise.”

She gathered the lies that allowed her to exist. “I have decided to join the fight on a more personal basis. What is the plan?”

“We bring the fight to the demons instead of waiting for them to strike. We do not yet have the numbers to crush their strongholds but we may send a small force.” He indicated up the hill, where half built structures were surrounded by hunters, paladins, and warlocks alike. “And there is plenty of meat who wishes to prove itself to us. Shall we begin the ritual?”

She stood back and looked at the ship above her. She knew the demons on board would test her should she arrive. If Ritssyn could see her weakness, an inquisitor would even more quickly. She made a show of taking out her staff and looking at the ground. It smoked with demon energy and lit the scars on her hands while she stood upon it. She had never felt so much power seeping from the earth beneath her and she ached to bury herself within. She thought again of portals, of runes and movement. She thought of ways she could to transport a living, willing being across the nether without harm. Then she crafted the spell. She dragged her fingers over the hot obsidian and the runes appeared at her touch. The demon’s breath that permeated the air set them alight. Marius looked at her work and nodded.

“I will have the Forge Smiths create the gateway to stabilize it. Very cleverly done, my lady.”

The demons assembled the cursed outline of the portal and she wove the spell tighter, securing it so it would not fall to the Legion’s opposition. Then she stood back and watched eager members of the army barrel through, returning one by one with demon blood on their hands and demon armor on their backs. It pleased her.

She felt the Netherlord’s summon at the back of her head and she knew it was time to return to Dreadscar Rift. She stepped through the screaming nether and presented herself at the altar. The rest of the Council had been dispersed. Shinfel stood alone with the Netherlord in front of the battle map that showed their armies across the continent.

“When you swore yourself to my service, Shinfel, you swore yourself to my wishes. The news of what you have accomplished with Marius have reached my ears, and I’m glad for them, I nonetheless did not release you to your duty.” The Netherlord sighed. “You are restless. I know. And the tantalizing jail that your imp resides in must be breeched. But Shinfel…” The Netherlord’s not finish the sentence that Shinfel did not want uttered aloud. “If we are to rebuild you faster, I will weave the spell. I had wanted to do this with nature, with patience, but if I must artificially strap yourself together with lash of flame and chain of fire, I will do it. Your insubordination will cost me too much.”

Shinfel looked with furious confusion at the Netherlord. “You could have healed me all this time?”

“I could shield you from the moment I saw you, Shinfel,” she retorted. “But the spell like this will always be temporary and the effects incomplete. Messy. Time is the only thing that brings back sanity and safety. Time will be the only thing that allows you to become the true Shinfel Blightsworn. But my time has run out, it seems.” 

The Netherlord vanished in a swirl of gray smoke, leaving Shinfel alone and confused. She returned to the tones of unspeakable knowledge and held her hand above the leaflets. They turned of their own accord against her palm. She needed not thumb through endless pages of flayed skin and demon writing. Her mind to the magic was enough.

It was not within her book, nor was it within that of the wolf’s. Ritssyn was too much her enemy for her to ask and Jubeka too much a child. Her gnomish companion revealed a fragment when delicately asked. Shinfel poured over the unfamiliar tome and found a hypothetical ritual.

It was a repair spell, one of knitting, one of binding. A spell that would hide all damage for as long as the wielder could maintain it. The spell that would be crystallized with blood, and fire, and word, and deed. A spell that for the price of healing would leave an irrevocable scar.

Shinfel disguised her frustration. All this time she could have avoided the Netherlord’s precious hands and mouth. She could have been herself, alone amongst the demons, ripping them apart with her hands and reveling in their deaths once more. Her soul was already so scarred. What would more would one scar make?

The spell would take many hands and many components. The Netherlord scarce had time to assemble them but because Shinfel demanded, she did so. Maybe that should have been Shinfel’s sign, but she was too blind and too furious to admit it. When at last the components were assembled, Shinfel was brought to the altar. The council bound her with rope and then with chain and then a ribbon of runes touched by the void. The Netherlord stood aside, not divulging her rationale beyond a desire to quench the last of the curse. The particulars were left for Shinfel and the Netherlord alone to share. 

The words the Netherlord uttered were profane and sacred at the same time. Shinfel recognized snippets but the chant was unfamiliar. The origin of the spell she could not fathom and the price, for her and for the Netherlord, was even less clear. The pain that first went through her was bearable and familiar. The second rivaled Cho’gall’s torments. The third rivaled the curse of doom and she lost her voice from screaming. It plunged her in the depths of her despair. She was glad for the binding that silenced her or she would have begged Netherlord to make it stop.

Through the pain she felt a chain pierce her heart and wrap around her neck. Another through her eyes and hook into the back of her brain. Another through both hands and through her loins. With every pierce of the chain, the pain faded. With every lock it deposited in her body, her boldness returned. In time Shinfel had locked away every moment of doubt, every hesitation at the edge of the blade, everything that had kept her from what she wanted to be. She felt the spell entwine the links of the chains and set them fast. 

But she could feel the instability of the magic. It relied on her flesh, her magic, her soul inasmuch as there was one left. She could feel the hand of the Netherlord’s gripping her from within. A spell such as this was too powerful to remain stable. It was binding Shinfel against her true self; as her personality began to manifest, it would fail and the magic would backlash. But Shinfel did not care for that moment. What mattered was the now.

The Council cut her from the table and she thanked each one. They look pleased with themselves, except for the Netherlord, who turned away and kept walking. Shinfel, even in the heat of Dreadscar Rift, felt the cold of the Netherlord’s loss and a slice of regret. As she would with so many of her troubles, she put it aside in the favor of what she would gain.

She shattered her way into the imp’s prison and battled through the throngs of demons sent to trap her. She did not stop until she reached his soul, torn apart and tattered like a cloak left in the wind. He was barely there, but he looked at her with such adoration and happiness that she did not put him out of his misery. She wrapped him up as best she could and brought him back to Dreadscar Rift to heal, much as had been done for her.

\---

Shinfel saw the specter of Argus hanging in the air and she knew that the journey had moved from merely storming Sargeras’ tomb to going to the seat of his power. With a single sentence, the Netherlord bade her guard Dreadscar from incursions and took Ritssyn to be her guard. Her anger was muted by the spell and she ignored the insult. With fearless horror she threw herself into every action. There was no damage she could not inflict upon herself and upon her enemies. Nothing could stop her. Nothing dared try.

The Netherlord returned from time to time from Argus. She carried the weight of new demons. She grew in her power and she consulted Shinfel once more. She saw what she had wrought in Shinfel’s body and perhaps she craved she saw. Or perhaps she knew what was coming and so she sought Shinfel’s company. She looked at Shinfel with lustful and empty eyes. Shinfel knew her desire and resolved to sate it. 

The first night was in the Netherlord’s private quarters atop Dreadscar Rift. There Shinfel wielded a lash and her tongue in equal amounts until Netherlord was brought to her screaming climax. She rested, breathed in and out, and then looked at Shinfel with a knowing grin. “I know you can do more,” she snickered. “But I appreciate it nonetheless. Tomorrow, let’s try something different.”

This time it was in the upper towers of Dalaran. There Shinfel used the latent energies of the city to bind the Netherlord’s magic in place and then she brought out a chain whip, similar to the one that had been used on her. With runes inscribed, and then re-inscribed by her hand, she flayed the Netherlord until she screamed. And when she clawed at Shinfel and begged pleasure, Shinfel would withhold, but then submit to that desire. For the Netherlord always gave. Every time she held the lash, Shinfel would receive it in kind, harder, more. What else could Shinfel do but return the favor? But still, not enough.

In Shinfel’s own quarters, she carved signs in the Netherlord’s skin and then let them aflame as she busied herself between the Netherlord’s legs, the orgasm fueling the fire until it burnt the flesh to a crisp. After that, Netherlord lay on the floor and said, “I know the true Shinfel is still not been displayed to me, but I fear if she does, she will kill me.”

And Shinfel gave a wicked grin and draped herself over the Netherlord’s charred body. “I will give you a gift, then. I will show you everything I am. It will be the most significant experience of your life.”

Netherlord pulled her fingers through Shinfel’s black and blonde hair. She didn’t say anything for many minutes and then finally she said, “We shall see.”

When Shinfel was invited to the Netherlord’s home in Pandaria before the siege of Argus, Shinfel knew what she must do, what she was aching to do. What the Netherlord had summoned her to do. Magic be damned, along with Shinfel. If this was what the Netherlord wanted, she would be given it.


	3. Lost in Demonkind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shinfel searches.

Shinfel looked at the Netherlord at her feet. The dusky purple body was curled in the fetal position, blood streaming from between its fingers and from the cut marks down its back. One hand was pulled in an unnatural position and a massive scorch mark extended from thigh to thigh, hip to foot. The Netherlord whimpered, her begging for mercy having been replaced by cries for death. Then her words were stripped away altogether by the force of pain and despair. 

Restored by the spell, Shinfel was more than happy to grant to the Netherlord’s request for the depravity that Shinfel could inflict upon her. The Netherlord had not thought that Shinfel intended to include the innate deception and furious vengeance inherent in the heart of every warlock. The Netherlord realized too late that the experience she wanted was not the one she was going to be given. She wished to be pushed to the edge of her desires, pain and pleasure bringing her release like a volcano blanketing the land and molten rock burning trees. 

Shinfel had other plans. She was, after all, warlock. Words of the Netherlord had given to Shinfel to end their interaction Shinfel failed to heed. She increased the pain, brutalized the body in ways that she had been brutalized, battered the body in ways that she had been battered, tortured Netherlord in way she had been tortured. This was no game of pain that ended in outrageous pleasure. This was pain, unceasing, unrelenting, and driven into the Netherlord’s heart. Eventually the Netherlord’s will, more powerful than that of the average elf’s but nowhere close to Shinfel’s, collapsed under the relentless assault. She knew threats would not work so she had begun promising Shinfel imagined and unimagined power.

“Here. Take the skull. Take the blade. It will give you everything you might imagine. Release me. No more, I beg you.” That was when she could still make words. Shinfel had taken the weapons from where they were placed in the corner of the room and found the enchantment broken. The Netherlord had truly conveyed them into Shinfel’s possession. When she picked it up, the voice of the demon within was enraged as much as it was curious. It disliked the trickery even if it recognized a superior vessel for its desires. Shinfel’s used the new blade to carve runes of binding into the hands and feet of the Netherlord, punctuating each one by a stab that snapped sinew and tore ligament.

And she had blinded the Netherlord but kept her tongue intact so she might relish the screams. She understood her succubus’ joy in torturing Shinfel. There is something to be said for breaking the body and mind of someone who let themselves be put in the position. It was far more thrilling than torturing those who had harmed her. She would restore and destroy the Netherlord a thousand times had she did ability and freedom. But the Netherlord was still expected. Should she shirk her duties, Shinfel would be the next target of suspicion. Her mind would be cracked apart like a dragon egg and the content scooped out to discover what she had done. Thus she contented herself with a single endless night.

The Netherlord’s body was spent. Shinfel could visit more depravities upon it but she had done enough. Every orifice had been violated, every bone and limb torn, cut, smashed, or beaten. Shinfel’s last act was to bind the Netherlord to the center of the pentagram and walk away with the dagger in her hand. Another whimper came from behind her in the cottage. “Please, Shinfel. Please don’t walk away.” 

Shinfel smiled and closed the curtain. 

She walked outside and then chirping twilight. The clouds pulled across the otherwise clear sky and the smell of farmland and summer flowers filled her nose. She wondered what the simple denizens of the farm would think if they went inside and see what the Netherlord had allowed to happen. Who would bear the shame more?

The demon’s voice sounded unbidden in the back of her head. “Do you think you are going to accomplish anything by leaving her to die? They will never accept you as their leader.”

Shinfel kept walking to the edge of the farmland and into the grasses that sprawled through the valley. “I intend to accomplish nothing. She wished for my cruelty. She has it – my gift to her.” Shinfel looked over her curse-stained fingers. The gleaming obsidian that would mar her skin until the day she too was consigned to the fel. “The worst part for me was waiting after the pain. Never knowing when it was going to return. Knowing when it did, I would not be able to escape.” 

She looked back and smiled. “I am more merciful than my captors. I will end her suffering soon enough.” She walked farther and watched the birds, heard the lowing of animals, and felt a breeze pull the infernal heat from her body. Then she turned and returned to the cottage. 

She half expected to find that the Netherlord had used a hidden amount of strength or a concealed cantrip to escape. She was still there. The room smelt of blood, fear, and rank sweat. The Netherlord was crying and shuddered harder when she felt the cool wind from the outside room brush over her naked body. She knew what would come next. The little bit of strength regained would be crushed with laughing ease. She lay hating her weakness, much as Shinfel had done so many times, as her captor approached. 

Shinfel used the dagger to cut through the bonds and extinguish the wards in the candles. Then she found the blankets in which she had once been wrapped and carefully slid them underneath the Netherlord. She pressed a scroll of healing into the crushed ribs and recited the runes within. With an anguished scream, the body of Netherlord was made whole. Then Shinfel disrobed and, as Netherlord had done to her, pulled the Netherlord into her arms.

For Shinfel Blightsworn was a monster. She was a murderer and torturer. Mistress of screams and beloved of the succubi. Twice cursed. Twice healed. How could she not show her thanks to the one who had provided her mending? Attempting to rebuild the toy she had just obliterated gave her, in that moment, as much pleasure as breaking the toy once more. That was the Netherlord’s gift to her. That was Shinfel’s gift back. All returned to balance. 

Shinfel sighed and kissed the Netherlord’s hair. “Are you satisfied, Netherlord?”

Silence. Punctuated by quiet sobs. The Netherlord clung to Shinfel, her newly healed body behaving as if it were still fragmented. That was enough of an answer for Shinfel. She let the shaking stop and then found food for them both. They ate in silence. The Netherlord would not meet her eyes. Shinfel handed the dagger and skull back to the Netherlord, who took them with a trembling hand. The demon’s presence evaporated from Shinfel and she sorrowed at its loss. In time, the exertion of the day, the heaviness of the food, and the warmth of the shivering woman beside her lulled her to sleep. When she awoke, she was in Dreadscar Rift and the portalstone that she could use to escape crumbled to dust at her touch.

She never saw the Netherlord again.

Argus took the Netherlord, as it had taken so many other heroes. Ritssyn told a second-hand story of a mechanical demon who ripped into the group. A wave of power crushed the back line of casters, pulverizing the Netherlord before she could rescind her soulstone from the priest beside her. In thanks, the priest burned the Netherlord’s body so she could not be raised by the demons and cracked the ward on the skull, relinquishing Thal’kiel’s trapped soul to the nether. 

The Netherlord’s subordinate, a raging fel torrent in his own right, approached the council and leaned heavily on his scythe. 

“The Burning Legion is broken,” he rasped through a decaying voice box, “but the demons remain. A united council can seize more of their power than can tiny enclaves.” He took the Netherlord’s dagger, an empty trophy in his hands, and stabbed it into her book. The skull emitted a blast of green fire from its open screaming mouth and the ink vanished into the hilt. Then the book erupted into flames. 

“Her dream was to lead us to victory over all demon worlds. Those who wish to follow may drink from the well of power. Those who do not have minutes to leave this world.”

The council remained at their books and he smirked. “Wise acts. Let us begin the preparations.”

Shinfel was not inclined to follow his orders but knew better than to reject his gift. A warlock’s life was precarious. A twice-lived warlock knew more about evading death than most. He would safeguard their interests and she would have a haven. She approached once he dispersed the council and he narrowed his eyes, grinning coldly. 

“Warlock Blightsworn.” He yanked the dagger out of the Netherlord’s book. “She left a gift for you.” He handed her the dagger and its skull adornment, both empty of power. Curiously, she picked it up and ran her finger along the edge. It split her skin in two and she watched the rivulet of blood circle itself around her hand before dripping to the floor. 

“If Thal’kiel had not been driven from it, I would have kept this for myself.” He chuckled. “Ah, but it would never have stayed with me. You were always her favorite. Though I wonder if she would have survived that battle had she not spent the night before with you.”

She breathed in sharply and he laughed again, slapping his bony knee with a fleshless hand. “Did you not know? Oh, you ruined her, Shinfel. The Netherlord was a trembling shadow when she joined us on Argus.” He leered closer and flame danced between them. “Of course, only I knew where she went the night before. Thus I stood near our lord, Shinfel. When the metal beast came upon us, I saw her face contort in fear. She ripped the soulstone out of her heart and slammed it into that damned priest. She broke the seal on the skull and let Thal’kiel dance among the corpses of his jailers. She knew her weakness would only bring death, so she hastened it rather than stumble.”

He straightened up as much as his jutting spine would allow him. “And for that, I thank you. This boon would not have fallen to me otherwise. Let me know when you are ready to embark on your next mission.” He walked away, his staff tapping the ground with each step.

Shinfel gripped the blade, her blood seeking the hidden runes that concealed the demon’s imprisonment. She felt warmth surge into the weapon. The enchantment was broken. The soul was gone. She stalked towards her throne and sealed it behind her, then cast her magic into the skull. It was an eager and powerful conduit. The shadow she spewed forth focused into a pinpoint that etched the floor but flowed no further. Again she tried, now drawing more of her cursed blood into it, finding the path that led to the demon’s or the Netherlord’s soul. Nothing.

Enraged, she summoned a shrieking hellspawn, one too powerful for her to control but one apt to trade blood for knowledge. Shredding one arm down to the bone and snapping it off at the shoulder, she threw the limb into the pentagram.

“The Netherlord’s soul. Give it to me. You shall have my other arm if you do.” The creature lapped Shinfel’s flesh up into a grotesque and salivating mouth. 

“Gone,” it breathed, spewing chunks of cursed skin onto the floor. 

“Then Thal’kiel,” she spat. “My blood will feed you for years when he appears. My word is truth.”

“He cannot be called,” it laughed. “He has mortal skin. And it will cost more than your arm for me to betray that one.” It vanished, leaving her staunching the flow of blue-black blood from an empty arm socket. She cauterized the wound with fire and summoned her imp, then set off him into the darkness. 

Gone. That had never been her intent, had it? Merely to break, merely to play. She was a murderer only when it suited her. The Netherlord had never deserved Shinfel’s killing blow and Shinfel had no interest in dealing it. The Netherlord deserved torture, a mark of Shinfel’s lust and desire. If Shinfel had wanted otherwise, Shinfel would have claimed the Netherlord’s station after the Legion’s fall, not during its climax. The blood elf dropped to one knee. This was to be a mutual act of rage and desire. Not murder. Not death.

It should not matter. Warlocks killed warlock as a matter of course, power was conveyed in blood, not succession. The implication that she had a hand in the Netherlord’s death was just that, a suggestion. How the underling had known of their dalliance did not matter, only that he had named her in the Netherlord’s fall. Shinfel had thought that night’s tortures would be something from which the Netherlord could recover. It would merely be another insult in a long line of such disasters, another glorious scar to be borne into battle. 

Shinfel dimly realized what she gave the Netherlord was not a scar. It was a raw slice of flesh peeled from the bone. 

Her imp brought back a brute, a thick and stinking hunk of idiocy she rarely employed. It hunkered down in front of her and bent its head, knowing its fate before she enacted it. She walked over and sunk her fingers into its skin, drawing its blood through her remaining hand and using it to regrow the one she had destroyed. It did not howl or shudder. It looked bored as its life force was stripped out. With a grunt, it fell over as she started to regenerate her arm, leaving her with the imp once more. He knew is mistress’ ways well enough that he poofed away. Second later, Nimeth was at her call.

“Ah, my mistress. Where is my other mistress?” Her lewd grin was wrenched though with angry scorn. “Have you decided to drag yourself up from under her boot?”

Shinfel snapped a lash of energy across the succubus that the demon caught in a clawed hand. “Temper, temper, my mistress. Have I not taught you to play carefully?” The succubus smiled. “But I am pleased to see the return of your true soul, my lady. The Netherlord’s death has freed you?”

“Why did you never break me, Nimeth,” asked Shinfel hoarsely. 

“I…do not understand, mistress,” the succubus pouted. “Have my pleasures been insufficient?”

“When I was a bare whelp of a warlock, you could have snapped my will. I opened a door you could have crashed through. You did not. You became my servant instead of crushing me. Why?”

The succubus’ answer was to look at and through the warlock she had served for hundreds of years. Dawning realization broke across her perfect features and she grinned with unspeakable delight. 

“My mistress…you…oh dear. Did you break your little toy? Did you play with her until she screamed and begged? Did you rip the words from her, then her mind?” Shinfel did not need to respond. “Did you forget she was not as you, my mistress?”

“I did not mean to,” Shinfel shouted. “Not…not at all. I meant to…give her a gift.”

The succubus wrapped her tail around Shinfel’s waist and drew herself closer. The heat of her, the smell of her made Shinfel ache with need, and she lost herself in the succubus’ mouth on her neck. “You are no succubus, my lady, my mistress. You are a torturer, a demon of pain. You could no more give my gifts then I could give yours. Now, let me give you what you need.”

Shinfel pushed Nimeth away and dismissed the succubus in a confused wail. Then Shinfel clutched her head with her hands. There had to be a way to undo it. Warlocks had souls, both mortal and demon. So long as the nether persisted, a warlock’s life never truly ended. 

She summoned an observer and she sent him in search of the priest who had taken the Netherlord’s soul. The taint of shadow would be upon her, visible in the nether like a glimmering beacon. Then Shinfel paced Dreadscar Rift, feeling the chains that bound her together beginning to loosen. The spell, after all, was unstable without the Netherlord’s persistent magic. What would she be like without its clutch? As if in answer, she felt a cord snap across her body and a tiny element of power fizzled away. A flash of fear and pain resonated across her, but it vanished as the rest of the spell adjusted.

The observer spat forth his report and vanished. Shinfel found a mage who eagerly took her coin and brought her to her destination not far from Orgrimmar. Within the jungle to the south, she found the priest meditating in the damp heat.

She was greeted by a shimmering blue mohawk and curling tusks that mimicked a smile when Shinfel arrived. The priest did not quail at the warlock’s rage, which infuriated Shinfel as she approached the kneeling figure. Did the troll not realize she was in the presence of her superior?

Shinfel did not have time to voice the threat before the priest stood, a foot taller than the elf in front of her. The enmity between all elves and trolls vibrated between the two of them, their fragile truce in the Horde notwithstanding. The priest laughed at Shinfel and made a wide gesture.

“What are you here for, cursed creature?”

“The Netherlord. You took her soul. I demand be returned.”

“I do not have it.”

“You must. It clings to you.”

The troll shook her head. “That is the remnant of her touch, but not the Netherlord herself. That is the stain she could not bear. That is the dark river to her death.”

The priest made a sign in shadow to prove a point. “I am of the light and I am of the shadow. And I see the things that are hidden and I see the things that are open. And what she had within her was so deeply shattered that my boon, my gift of fearlessness, was worthless. She had borne a horror so great that she wished only for the release of death.”

Then the priest rent her garments, baring green skin with an ugly black stab through it. “And she took out her heart and drove it into mine. And I felt her fear and I felt her rage and I felt her regret. And then she walked forward.”

Shinfel stepped back and shook her head. “You lie. The Netherlord would never give up her soul so easily.”

“Her soul was long gone before she entered that fortress, little warlock. She was gone when the monster crushed her. All that remained was the skull that contained that demon. He stepped from it, took her body, and destroyed it. The demon took the body of a fallen mage upon himself as one would wear a hood. And he fought in the Netherlord’s stead. But when it came time to face the final Masters of that place, he vanished. I know not where and I do not care.”

Shinfel dragged her nails across her face, leaving little rivulets of blood in its wake. This was all wrong. This was not supposed to happen. Another one of the Netherlord’s cords within her snapped and the priest raised her eyebrows as if hearing the spiritual energy dissipate.

“You’re bound with a foul voodoo. Worse than the average warlock’s craft. Something deeply wrong. Something that should not be.” The troll reached out and Shinfel blasted her away with green fire. A bubble protected the priest as she wiped singed eyelashes off her face.

“Why do you care, little elf? She is a warlock. You are all interchangeable.”

“She was my leader,” snapped Shinfel. “She died far from me and everyone I have spoken to has lied or told me a half-truth. I deserve more than that.”

“You’re looking for an answer none of us can give, little elf. I do not know why your Netherlord was broken. But I know when the demons came, she released all her power, all of her energy, everything that she had ever saved in a single torrent.” The priest looked down, thoughtful. “I never used her soul stone. I was well protected. Even Argus in his madness could not touch me. It dwells within me still, but it is cold.” With a clawed hand she reached into the charred center of her body and ripped out a prism of purple and gray.

Shinfel put out an expectant hand and the impossibly light crystal was placed within it. It had the taste of the Netherlord, the scent of her and feel of her. It felt like all the times Shinfel had been in the Netherlord’s arms. But it was empty. None of the magic that stored her soul or protected the priest remained. Shinfel crushed it in her hand, letting the shards of glass drive through her skin. One piece pierced her hand with a thin lance. The other shredded muscle and ligament so thoroughly it nearly ripped off her finger. And Shinfel felt nothing. 

The priest backed away. “I’ve had my time with you, little elf. Whatever comes next is on your head.” Then the priest veiled herself in shadow and Shinfel was pushed from the ledge.

Shinfel returned to Dreadscar Rift, the shard of glass still through her hand. She lay down another circle and crafted within it the spell of locating, placing the blood-soaked shard within the center. Her blood fed the magic and shot through the runework. Where was the Netherlord, she screamed at it. How could this have happened? Her blood clotted and was silent.

She summoned the Netherlord’s apprentice and gazed at him long. “The Netherlord’s death has left us without a powerful warlock. The Eredar twins are bound to our will but I do not trust them.” He looked at her and flicked a piece of his own flesh away.

“I know what you want. What will you give me in return? They are demons of amazing power and you do not have the skill to replace them.”

“You have my blood, you have my flesh. You can take of it as you need.” She looked at him beseechingly and he shook his head, then sighed. It was the sound of smoke whistling through a dried riverbed.

“None of these appeal to me, Shinfel. But there is little else I can give you that you do not already have. I grant you your wish. For her sake.”

She had the twins brought before her and they knelt, obediently, the binding chains wrapped around their minds. Shinfel opened each one’s eyes and stared into them. As she peered she could see the will of the demon slamming itself against the spells. They would not give. The Netherlord’s bonds were too strong. 

Shinfel placed a gem in front of each. Then she incinerated their bodies, leaving their souls intact, and then sucked them into the soul stones. She held them together and then cast the next part of her spell. She reflected the torment she had at the hands of the twins and that she had at the hands of Cho’gall. She poured those memories into the stones and heard the screaming within.

Then she left. One stone she anchored and sent to the bottom of the sea. It would be disguised among the waves so not even the abyssal lords could open it. And if they did, well, Shinfel would be long dead by that. The next she brought to Outland and she threw it off the side of the nether, watching it tumble into the gravity well and disappear among the rubble of the collapsing planet. Only a keen eye would spot it among the wash of unkempt magic. The final spell was one of teleportation. She said coordinates. Should anyone pick up a stone, the stone would be sent elsewhere. And elsewhere from there. And that was her punishment to those who had broken her.

She sat, empty, on her throne. Missions she could undertake were laid out before her. She wanted none of them. She wanted something she could not touch anymore. She wanted to have listened and not to have acted. But action was all she had, so that was what she did.

She did not wait for the Netherlord’s apprentice to find her. She went to her book and scrawled a single word within it, then vanished. She found herself on Argus, home of a thousand perversions, and set herself to work. 

Demonsblood is plentiful and cheap but properly harnessed it can become an engine of power. Upon Argus, she had no shortage. She had always been driven, always been vicious. After the breaking of her curse of doom she had turned that single-minded purpose to revenge. This intensity was even more.

She cut her way through the remnants of the Legion, enslaving those who would follow just long enough to peel away their knowledge, then discarding them for others to use. She marked herself apart from other warlocks, who wished to conquer. More than once she ran into a fellow member of the coven who found her methods, if not brutal, then ineffective. The Netherlord’s apprentice let her pursue her goal regardless of their disapproval.

Days passed differently on the demon world. The Legion had long obscured the sun and ruined the moon, so the days were marked only by the shift in shadows. The broken who made their homes on the planet knew names for the seasons, but they stayed far from this demon-elf, this half-thing of rage and blood. 

She realized her purpose after the deaths of thousands of demons. She made a lattice of demonsblood and demonflesh. She found among them those who had been at Argus and found themselves new bodies. And through their empty and dead eyes, she wove a spell of Thal’kiel. If she could not find the Netherlord, she would find the mage who had displaced her. 

A human form. She had not expected that. Slight, pale skin, brown eyes and sandy hair. The kind of man who would linger on the sidelines and never pull the attention of even the most observant. He chose well. The body was hard to find. The soul was obscured. She tracked him as he moved from planet to planet, demon home to demon home, rebuilding the forces he had lost when they were stripped away.

The warlocks and their kin made use of the Legion’s network to trace their paths of destruction. So many of the planets had been burned or ruined. Enough had life upon them that the warlocks found themselves ambassadors to depraved and profane creatures aching for freedom from the Legion

She came to him on one of those worlds, ice and snow on every curve of the soil. There were no trees, just scrub rock and lichen. The sun was a dead thing in the sky that burned all day and all night but gave little light and scant heat. It was a dying world, perhaps dying when the demons took it, perhaps dying because of the demons. She did not entrap him. She found him. And then she called him.

His look was of confusion and then pleased realization. He reached a hand out to her and bowed.

“My Lady Blightsworn. I thought I felt your eyes upon me. Subtle. Your network was a gossamer spider thread. Yet you did not constrict, more the puzzle. Have you come to forsake the Council and join my burgeoning army? You could build whatever you wanted. I am happy to have a lieutenant.”

She laughed it is offered. “I declined such an offer from Kil’jaeden. And Thal’kiel, you are no Kil’jaeden. Your orgy of demonkind is not even a sliver of the burning Legion’s power.”

He opened both hands and give a mock bow. “Well, perhaps I shall impress you one day. If you are not here to talk shop, then why are you here.”

“The Netherlord.”

His eyes dimmed. They took not the hue of smoldering rage but of a pensive sadness. “She cast me aside. She gave me power and purpose. She gave me my revenge and the taste of freedom. But in the end she threw me away.” He looked at Shinfel. Looked through her. “Every moment of her, every inch of her had been poured into you, into the hope of you. Instead of giving her what she asked, you took the things that made her who she was and you separated them. You have taken many lives and you have spent many lives to learn this. This is your answer: You broke her, Shinfel. Absolutely and utterly.”

Shinfel went to object but he raised a hand. “She did not grieve when she shattered my prison. She did not hesitate when she handed over her soul stone. She ached for an escape from what you had done to her. She knew death would bring, if not peace, then oblivion. I gave her counsel, reminded her that I could spend thousands of years drifting in the nether. Reminded her there were ways to dull pain and escape loss.” He turned and gazed into the frozen hellscape, then turned back.

“But she showed me what lay within her, the fear and rot you inflicted on her heart and body, and I understood. You cursed her as deeply as you had been cursed. She had no means to heal it, not as she did for you, not without violating your secrets. Not without stripping the magic from your heart. She bound you together with herself and at the end, when she no longer mattered, she chose you.” He exhaled a frigid breath. “I have been meaning to ask you, since those moments so many years ago: did you mean this, Shinfel Blightsworn? Did you mean to harm the only person who loved you in this universe?”

That was the sensation Shinfel had dreaded and had felt in the soulstone, and her fingers, and her cords. The love of a warlock. Born of sex and violence, woven within the most private recesses of Shinfel’s mind. The Netherlord had found something to love within her subordinate and Shinfel had eagerly and viciously stripped it away. 

Shinfel turned. “If I had known, I would have not.” 

He let her leave. She vanished through a portal before he changed his mind. She hurtled through the nether, looking for understanding. Her chase had been her obsession, her answer empty and unsatisfying. How could she have broken the Netherlord? What did it mean, to heal, to strip magic, to give, to love? The chains the Netherlord hooked within her had dwindled through these bitter years, but each one that broke now revealed a thick psychic scar teeming with magic and anguish. Healing in bitter ropes of pain, just as the Netherlord warned and promised. 

She went to demon planet after demon planet, chasing blood and fury. There was nothing that any mortal race could offer her that the demons had not. From time to time she amassed a following, imps trailing in her wake or void walkers pledging their service. She always disposed of them, preferring her private demons to those she met in the field, but she would be foolish not to take advantage of them. She needed no food, no rest, no breath. She plunged herself into her task and obliterated the woman within. It kept her from asking what she would be now if she had let the Netherlord heal her. It kept her from thinking about her mistakes.

Eventually she looked upon another demon world that she had scourged and sighed. She could kill them endlessly and they would endlessly attack. She felt herself at the limits of her power, the aching edge she had always craved, and for a moment felt the endeavor wanting in purpose. She shook it aside, crawled her way through another stack of demons, and kept fighting.

The letter came in the form of a puff of smoke, quiet, especially compared to the roiling hatred and boiling blood that surrounded her. It was summoned back to Dreadscar Rift. She was surprised it still stood, so many years had it been since she walked its burning halls. The conclave must be reassembled, said the empty head. Lulubelle had finally met her demise, nobly sacrificing herself and clearing the Fizzlebang name once and for all. A new member of the Council was to be voted in. She was required. She obeyed.

Her first moments in the Rift were of confused familiarity. She recognized the imp mother’s corpulence, a few extra lines added, a few extra rolls added, for time had passed for the demons as well. They still saluted her as she walked. Some of the acolytes, now fully fledged members of the coven, hailed her in turn. She reached the circle. Her book was still there, soaked and dripping with the sympathetic magic, and she looked down at its pages. She had doubled the tome with demonsblood in the years that had passed. Ritssyn limped over, leaning heavily on a staff of gnarled bone and chiseled stone.

“The rumors were true,” he choked. “You still live. I can only imagine what monstrosities you have slain, Shinfel, and see what monstrosity you have become.”

He did not wait for her answer. He dragged himself across the glossy floor and stood among the books. Kira, her skin wrinkled but her eyes black and cunning, stood next to him. Jubeka, her flesh more rotted and scorched. Kanrethed, ageless and vacant. Zinnin, his muzzle greyed and silent. She stood among them and turned towards their leader. The Forsaken warlock indicated his choice.

Of the many warlocks who had made their mark, a single dwarven female gleamed with unearthly fire. Her dark eyes and smoldering hair were bloodline-given. Her power, her cunning, her viciousness, those were the marks of her craft. She was put among them as kindred and Council. Her unfamiliar syllables rose in concert with their own. The Council was whole again.

Shinfel sat in her own throne room, reserved for her during her long absence. It had been many years since she came to Dreadscar Rift and the memories she had left here were bitter. She remembered waking up cold and alone after her last night with Netherlord. She remembered the desperate look in Netherlord’s eyes as Shinfel destroyed her. Worse, she remembered the look of Netherlord’s eyes when she healed Shinfel, body and soul, in those nights of pleasure and pain. That look, the one Thal’kiel called love, the one that Shinfel killed because she did not understand. She vanished within minutes, returning to the planet from which she had been summoned and began killing once more.

The next summons came more quickly, years instead of decades, decades instead of centuries. It was a polite demon, another imp but with a female form and cool blue eyes. Curious, Shinfel went heedlessly through the portal it made. She found herself not Dreadscar Rift but overlooking the edge of the maelstrom. The undead leader of the Council dismissed his servant with a snap of his fingers and stood alone with Shinfel, watching the world roil beneath them.

“You have said this is the moment where you recognized pure terror, more than a demon, more than the end of the world at demon’s hand.”

“It is. Even Sargeras at his most horrifying would never live up to the feeling of such a creature flying overhead, bent on our universal instruction.” She looked into the world. “We all lost something. And I suppose Azeroth still bears the scars.”

“Yes, though less when you last walked among us. The shaman have been busy, with the druids beside them. The world has changed much in these decades, Shinfel.” He threaded his fingers behind him. “Truth to be told, I had expected both of us to have long since passed since then. But the Dark Lady gave all of us her parting gift when she moved from the sphere. And you are too cunning to be killed by the demons.” His sighed in a way that was almost human. “Regardless. Did you find what you’re looking for?

“I have no answers. Not even with the blood of a million demons on my hands,” she answered with more candor than she expected. “I cannot find her soul. I cannot find where she went.” She closed her hand into her fingers and blood seeped from the palms. “She is a warlock. All of our souls are bound to the nether. When every one of us dies, we will return to the nether in some form or another. Every one of us can be summoned forth. That she cannot means there is something wrong, that she is somewhere alive.”

“Perhaps. But I think it is more likely that she dissipated herself rather than suffer.” His voice was strangely kind. “The soul of the warlock adrift in the shadow is not a happy soul. Why can’t you accept that?”

Shinfel did not answer him. She looked into the lightning crackled above the world pool, and the fires that raged at the base of the water in spite of their depth within the ocean. Nothing made sense. Nothing she had done seem to have mattered. And for the first time in hundreds of years, Shinfel felt… tired.

“I believe is time for you to leave the conclave, Shinfel Blightsworn. I believe the goals I have set forth require more active participant.”

“You are here to kill me?”

“Not at all. Killing you brings us no closer to our success. It would be better to have a sympathetic outsider among the demons than to drop you into the void. But I will kill you if you refuse.”

“And my space within Dreadscar Rift?” All the things she had, it seemed like the strangest request to make but that was the one that sprung to her mind.

“Dreadscar Rift is a place for all warlocks who would serve the coven. You would of course be welcome there if you so chose. The space is yours.” He bowed slightly. “Though I suspect you will be less interested in now that you are no longer in need of our services. Regardless, we will always be there for you, Shinfel Blightsworn.” 

He lifted her hand and she felt a moment of power flicker from her. The bond to the Council was broken. Then he left her alone, passing through the portal back to Dreadscar Rift. She stayed a little while longer, contemplating throwing herself in, and then realizing it would accomplish nothing. She formed her own portal, seeking the tendrils of the places she had once known, and found herself in Orgrimmar once more.

The capital of the Horde had changed much in her absence. It was no less fearsome, but it had lost part Orcish heritage. Now the spires of Silvermoon, the totems of the tauren, and the cursed jungles of the trolls made themselves more known among the city’s quarters. The denizens too were less Orcish. Races she had never met now strolled among the streets, conversing easily with one another. The Horde was still savage, yes, but she saw here not an outpost in a hostile land but a true home for people who had for many years found no home. She saw Silvermoon still stood and guessed that after so many years, it would have been rebuilt to its former splendor. But the elf kind held nothing for her. She had left them behind long ago. She had left this all behind long ago.


	4. The Snapping of Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A door opens. A door closes.

The portal system to Pandaria would accept her body but she wanted time to reconsider her decision. She went to the port outside of Orgrimmar and paid her passage on one of the trade ships that still crossed the roiling sea. The rocking of the boat was unfamiliar and she spent several queasy days gripping the handrails hard enough to leave scorch marks. A young seafaring troll stayed with her much of the time and made idle conversation that she shrugged away without anger. She had no need to prove her power to him. He was being kind and acted without fear. He did not deserve her fire or rage. It strained her to think as such. She had been The Blightsworn, the elf demon of vengeance and motion, for endless years. Yet with every day that passed on Azeroth, every rise and falls of the twin moons, she found she wanted less and less to be what and who she was.

From the verdant docks she hired a wagon near who would pass through the farmlands. It was a five day’s ride and she spent much time getting accustomed to clear air and quiet. The first time she had been here, she had been stunned by it. Now that she was here of her own volition, she wondered why. She knew the Netherlord’s intent at the end of her life had been to retreat. Shinfel had never comprehended why until now.

She was dropped with little fanfare at the intersection that marked the town. A cluster of newly-constructed huts was the only marking of the years that had passed. After all, Pandaria was ageless. Neither the Horde nor the Alliance nor the Sha nor the Legion could change its nature. She was not necessarily surprised when she walked up to find the farm tender leaning on his hoe, taking a break from the fields in the middle of the day. He looked at her and nodded. Since her absence, grey had taken over his muzzle and a deep stoop appeared in his hunched back. He waved at her with a wrinkled palm and let her walk up the path.

Perhaps she thought she would find Netherlord within this dwelling. Shinfel knew enough of magic, her own especially, not to hold that hope. If the Netherlord was not in the void, she would not be in her home. Perhaps Shinfel would immolate herself within the cabin to conclude her search. 

There was no decrepit farmhouse for her to restore. A well-kept farm stood in front of her. The two apple trees that flanked the home now towered over it, with a plum and peach tree in full bloom besides. The door was unlocked and Shinfel went in.

The decor had been subtly and tastefully updated from her last visit. The paper on the walls had not yellowed and the chairs bore new cushioning. Shinfel opened the ice box. It bore some foodstuffs, fresh no less, something that might sustain a single person. The curtains were pulled apart, showing the shade underneath the fruit trees and the mountains beyond. A view easily seen from kitchen table.

Shinfel swallowed hard and almost ripped open the bedroom door. The bed was made, the runes still lingered, the writing desk and its chair sat dusted, but it was unchanged. Whoever was living in the kitchen and the sitting room knew well enough to stay out. Shinfel walked in and sat down on the bed, pressing her face into her hands. From her position, the mattress beneath her crackling and creaking in its disuse, she felt the power arise. A thin line of green fire lit its way across the door and trailed over to a wall. A simple warlock’s trick, one not likely to be uncovered by prying housekeeper.

She walked forward and pressed her hand into the door, expecting a portal into the void. A cold room was all she found. It was musty, smelling of years of untouched disuse. The seals held – neither decay nor animal had gotten to the contents. But there were few spells that bothered with freshening air.

A warlock’s altar sat in front of her. Shorter than Shinfel had expected, but the Netherlord’s true form had not been the elf child. That other life had crafted the altar: flat black marble with tiny gears carved into the bottom. It was otherwise unadorned except for the letter, yellowed and flaking, that bore Shinfel’s name in a long script.

With a trembling hand she reached out and took it, expecting it to crumble in her fingertips. It maintained its shape and she unfolded it. As she did, the last of the Netherlord’s spell, the last chain that held her together, snapped apart and left Shinfel bare. Unlike every other break in the spell’s magic, this last release left a soft and well-knit band of skin behind, the psychic reminder of what the Netherlord’s healing could have been. Now whole, the missing spell allowed Shinfel, who screamed and begged, who roared and yelled, to cry.

For she read in the Netherlord’s shaking hand that this place had been prepared for her. That Shinfel’s tortures left a psychic mark so indelible that the Netherlord would always be blind. That what she had envisioned between them was not what she received, which was a source of agony as much as the physical damage. That she suffered because Shinfel also suffered. That Shinfel had been drowned in curse, pain, and despair for so long that the Netherlord could not heal her. That above all the lust and desire and power and command, the Netherlord had truly hoped to give Shinfel a reprieve from being Shinfel Blightsworn, from being the cursed one.

And at the end of her life, all she could do was hope the spell she drove into Shinfel’s heart would do what the Netherlord herself could not. That the gift of her blood, her soul, would hold Shinfel together and knit the jagged edges of torment into a shining scar. That her death was a catalyst and the reaction would be unending.

The Netherlord hoped that Shinfel had found this letter, had taken its words to heart. She hoped it had not been too much time since the Netherlord gave herself to Shinfel but allowed that perhaps generations would have passed before the letter was found. That whatever brought Shinfel to this place would allow her to find peace, or if not peace, then solace.

Then in the aching script was the word love, and Netherlord’s name. Shinfel had never known it. For in all their times together, Shinfel had called her mistress, had called her Netherlord, had called her swears and curses, had called her as warlocks do each other. In the end, the Netherlord was a woman who loved a monster and who accepted her death as the price for that adoration.

Shinfel put the letter down, her tears spattering the ink, and removed the empty blade and empty skull from her belt. She placed them down on the altar, each into its assigned place, and the altar lit with an old flame. Shinfel placed her hand on the surface and felt the Netherlord’s warmth emanating from it. She gripped the edge of the altar. Perhaps the arms that embraced her were illusory, but she felt them nonetheless. She felt that presence, the one that wish to heal her, the one that had cared for her more than she had ever cared for herself. The flame died as she walked away. 

She walked into the kitchen where a slight pandaren was preparing dinner. The cook busied herself at the stove and did not turn around.

“It is been many years since last we entertained a guest,” she said, speaking in high common that surprised Shinfel with its fluency. “You are welcome here for as long as you wish.”

Shinfel sat and the pandaren silently completed the dish. A plate of stir fry was placed in front of Shinfel. She did not recall the last meal she had consumed nor what it felt like to eat, to be hungry, to need. She took a bite nonetheless. The young female ate beside her, taking the slow enjoyment these pandas had burned into their blood. In between sighs of enjoyment, she spoke of the instructions left to her family.

“We knew in time this house would pass from our possession.” She pointed with silver tined fork. “We expected the master’s return, but you were not unconsidered.” She raised her bushy eyebrows. “Do you wish to take ownership of this home or are you just visiting?”

“I… I don’t know,” sputtered Shinfel. “I don’t know.” She placed her fork down the plate. She looked out the window into the dimming twilight and watched the breeze move the sheaves of wheat. 

The young woman smiled. “Very well. The bedroom is clean, as you saw. I never felt like using it. Had a strange aura about it, but we all enjoy this kitchen. We hope you will allow us to visit from time to time, though warlocks are not the most social people. The master being the exception!” She roared and slapped her knee with a furry hand. “Now, help me with dishes.”

Shinfel busied herself with the domestic chores she had not engaged in decades. Then she sat down once again as three cups were placed on the table, followed by three pours of dark green tea. Shinfel looked at her strangely. “The Netherlord is dead. Her soul is gone. I’ve searched 100 demon worlds with my own hands and thousands more with my minions. She is gone, young panda,” said Shinfel quietly. “I destroyed her.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” said the young woman firmly. “And that you are here suggest that she might be as well. No harm in leaving her drink.”

Shinfel picked up the steaming mug and trinket, its warmth burning her tongue in a way that was familiar. She breathed out, her body still, and felt the pain dissipate. Silence, finally. Stillness, finally. From outside, they heard light steps on crunching gravel and the panda woman reflexively poured out the third cup of tea. Shinfel did not turn towards the door. She did not need to. Whatever future, cursed or no, walked through, she would finally be able to accept.


End file.
